


Smoke

by AutumnSpicePudding



Series: Original Works [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bisexual Character, Child Abuse, Lesbian Character, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Past Abuse, Rape Recovery, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6394321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnSpicePudding/pseuds/AutumnSpicePudding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't smoke. Never has, never will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

She doesn’t smoke. Never has, never will.  
“Why?” he asks, twirling his cigarette with long, pale fingers, blowing out a thin stream of smoke from chapped, pink lips.  
It’s a loaded question.  
Because her childhood bedroom would always smell of smoke; smoke and ash and cheap cologne that came with rough, fat fingers pinning her down and her favorite pajama bottoms – light blue with smiling puppies running across the fabric - being shoved in the back of her closet in the morning, stained with blood and humiliation.  
Because her English classroom was foggy with it, her teacher staring at her with wide, terrified eyes, as he huffed and puffed like a train, wondering how the fuck he was supposed to deal with her and her newly revealed secret because this was never covered in his training, at least not with eight year olds.  
Because the ashtray in the psychiatrist’s office was all she could look at, overflowing with squashed cigars under the “no smoking” sign. Irony. He asked impossible questions and kicked open all the doors she’d tried so hard to barricade shut, telling her she needed to confront the trauma to feel better; he made her feel worse than before. Cruel irony.  
Because the first boy she ever kissed tasted of Marlboros and disrespect, but she let him spread that taste in her mouth, so that it stuck to her tongue and made her insides feel like they were slowly burning; a failed family barbecue on a damp day. She needed the sickly, pale fire, the smell of cheap, over-advertised deodorant and the thick black fog to cover the holes and wounds she carried. He gave her the illusion of filling them as he made them wider, blacker, deeper.  
Because the first girl she ever loved told her she deserved better, and held her close and kissed seven years of pain away. She tasted of marshmallows that had been toasted over the fire for too long; sweet and sticky with a burnt edge you couldn’t avoid. She was kind, she was good, and the air she exhaled wasn’t thick and heavy and suffocating. It was more like a well-meant hug when you don’t really feel like touching anyone but try to accept the comforting gesture anyway. Of course it didn’t work, so she gave her a train ticket to far, far away, and waved her good bye on the train platform, a cigarette hanging loosely from those saving lips, and the train compartment smelled like smoke and hopeful nervousness and worn leather briefcases. A long, tiresome journey home.  
Because her first night in her flat was unbearably lonely, with moldy, damp corners and stale tobacco air. She left the windows open all night and stared at the stars, until tobacco was replaced with city sounds and rekindled dreams, and her heart swelled oh so cautiously: could it start to hope again? She looked down at her hands, clasped together on her lap; dainty pink nails and soft skin. They were strong.  
Because after that first night, nothing smelled of smoke again. The air smelled of cars and freshly brewed coffee and people late for work, and she learned to walk on the side of the street because she wanted to take the time those people hadn’t to admire where she was. The middle of the city, where the air was fresh and clean, and where the cigarettes she did see littering the streets were just that. Litter. They didn’t concern her, not anymore.  
Because this life, this present, this future she could just begin to see as the fog cleared up was new. Untouched, unspoiled, full of promises, full of things that had been taken from her. Like a home, warm and welcoming and nothing like the one destroyed by spilled alcohol and a lonely, scared little girl with a matchbox and a broken body that couldn’t take any more.  
She breathes in, shallow and cautious, eyes following the trail of smoke that goes up to the sky in gentle spirals.  
“Because it’s bad for you,” she says finally.  
He watches her with those intelligent, observant eyes of his, head tilted lightly, so that his hair spills across his left shoulder, thick and dark and wavy. Like smoke.  
“Fair enough,” he says gently, and he understands. She’s not quite sure how, but he does.  
They leave the corner of the street, head back to the café, where their friends sit, laughing and gossiping; secrets and rumors trailing from lips to eager ears, enveloping them in their own, hazy little world.  
He stops, she turns. He drops the cigarette, squashes it under his toe.  
“Filthy habit,” he says, and links his fingers with hers.


End file.
